I was walking down the corridors
of "Machon Sharet," in Hadassah Hospital. Something was odd, but I couldn't put
my finger on it. Then I realized
what it was - a strange calm and
silence pervaded the halls. Nowhere
was there the hushed hustle of activity usually associated with a
hospital. The ward contained some
120 beds yet there was no doctor
and only one nurse sitting behind a
desk. No moans and groans, no
conversation - just an eerie silence.
A quick look at the signs told it all:
this was the oncology ward, where
terminal patients are kept. No need
for too many doctors or nurses, nor
any use for them. Most patients
were drugged and sleeping,
awaiting their final rest.
I had been sent to stay with Ely who, as it worked out,
was a week away from his petirah. I was prepared to see a
sick man, but was shocked at his
appearance. Thin and emaciated,
his skin was an unhealthy yellow
indicating liver failure. Indeed, he looked as if the end was imminent.
His eyes were glazed and looked
into the distance, and he rarely
responded to communication. Even
when he noticed me, it was extremely difficult for him to speak,
for his mouth was parched and
bloodied: and when he did respond
to me, it was with a nod or at most a
grunt.
I steeled myself, and began attending him. I asked him if he wanted
water. A faint nod. I dampened his mouth with a bit of water and tried
to get a few drops down his throat.
I then asked him if he would like
to "go for a walk." No response. It
was as if he were in a daze. I asked
him again. A faint nod. So I struggled for quite a while until I
managed to get him into a wheelchair, and began pushing him
around the long hallway.
While wheeling Ely around, I
became aware of the other patients.
Here one patient was trying to hit it
off with the nurses. Another was
showing his strength and a third
was cursing the "Ashkenazi" doctors
for "killing" him. I was reminded of
Rabbi Chaim Shmulevitz's frequent
comment: "Bilaam had said, 'Let me
die the death of the righteous'
(Bamidbar 23, 10). Bilaam had
witnessed the loftiness and sanctity
surrounding the passing of a tzaddik, and wished it for himself. He
failed to realize that in order to die
like a tzaddik, one must live like a
tzaddik."
I seemed to see the comment
come alive in this ward. Here were
people who were keenly aware of
the imminence of their Yorn Hadin,
yet they could not discard the habits
of a lifetime.
My stroll with Ely was finished. I
put him back in his bed and turned
to leave. Something agitated him
and he tried to motion toward the
wheelchair. I was puzzled and could
not understand what he was trying
to tell me. Frustrated, he forced
himself to say the first sentence that
I heard from him that aftenoon:
"Please ... return the wheelchair
... someone else ... may need it."
With this, he fell back exhausted,
his eyes returning to their own
world.
"Yes," I thought, "A person who
lives for others does not forget
others when he dies."
A week later Ely returned his
holy neshama to his Maker. May
his remembrance be a zechus for us.
A. Scheinman
A. Scheinman
